Deadly Requiem
by Sherlock Emrys
Summary: A girl has been murdered with a most unlikely weapon, but is the murderer the obvious suspect?  No ships. Mildly graphic death. Shameless abuse of Mozart. Probable inaccuracy regarding clarinets. NOW COMPLETE.
1. Chapter 1: Intro

**AN: This was going to be a drabble, but it just grew out of it. I'm making this a multichapter fic.**

**Apologies for any misinformation about clarinets. I am a trumpet player, pianist and guitarist and I can't for the life of me play reeded stuff. All information is gleaned from my friend who DOES play the clarinet.**

**EDIT:Repost- fixed the tenses thing (sorry, I was having a present-tense moment when I was writing it and I kept slipping) as well as clarified a couple of sentance things that were unclear. And fixed a few things with advice from somebody who knows about clarinets.**

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><p><span>Deadly Requiem<span>

The last chord rolled away into the hall's dark corners, and the conductor lowered his arms ponderously.

'Better,' he announced, and they all sighed in relief. 'But not good enough! Mozart is turning in his grave!' There were eye rolls and mutters, but the Maestro had the authority here. 'More practice, all of you. Woodwind, careful on those triplet cross rhythms.' The flautists grinned smugly in the knowledge that they didn't play the triplets; the other woodwind players glared. A long running rivalry existed between the flautists and the other woodwind players, who don't have their pitch. 'You may leave,' the conductor announced magnanimously.

Gratefully, everyone stood up and began the controlled chaos of clearing up after music practice.

'Are you staying to practice?' asked a young man packing away his clarinet.

The subject of his enquiry shook her dark hair out of her face and grinned ruefully. 'I have to, my apartment banned music the other week.'

Her companion hissed in sympathy. 'That bad?'

'You have no idea,' she said with feeling. 'I'd move out but you know what it's like finding apartments these days.'

'Oh, I completely agree,' he replied. 'By the way, if you're staying then you can keep that reed.'

She clicked her fingers in irritation. 'Of course, I'd forgotten that was yours. Here, I'll pay you back, I can pop out and buy you a new one,' she said hastily, digging through her bag for her purse.

He waved away the proffered money. 'No, no, it's fine, Emily. You keep that. Don't bother paying me, it's not like they're expensive.'

'Not for you,' Emily muttered. 'I'm still out of a job, and _he_ isn't paying us until next week.' She indicated the conductor, who was fastidiously shuffling sheet music.

'Then all the more reason for you to keep it.' The young man smiled at Emily, who sighed in relief.

'If you're sure, Jack.'

'I'm sure,' he said firmly.

'Thank you,' Emily said with a grateful smile.

'How long are you here for?' Jack said with curiosity, pushing a shock of black hair out of his eyes.

'Till five, why?'

'I was going to take you out for dinner.'

'You really don't need to-' Emily began, but Jack cut her off.

'It's not charity. Now, I've got to run- I'll see you at five, OK?'

'Okay,' Emily laughed. 'As if I could stop you! I haven't eaten all day- so expect to pay a big bill!'

'Be my guest,' he said gallantly as he picked up his case. He shrugged on his coat and smiled, a laugh dancing in his blue eyes. 'Farewell, my lady.'

'Get away with you,' Emily flapped him away. He walked halfway across the stage. 'See you tonight,' she called.

He turned, waved, grinned and saluted. She shook her head slightly and waved back, the borrowed reed clutched in her hand. He faded into the darkness off the stage, and around Emily the orchestra dissolved into a host of ordinary, if slightly odd, people.

The empty auditorium was dark and shadowed, a pool of light spread across the bare, dusty stage. The rows of seats stood silent in the peaceful quiet, the stage scuffed and scraped under the carefully regimented semicircle of folding chairs.

The last people had left, going home to their families. Emily was alone in the still, silent darkness, the only light the pool splashed across the stage and the only sound the distant hum of traffic. She picked up her clarinet and quickly began to clean it- she'd noticed it felt a little wrong earlier. A few minutes later, she picked up the reed Jack had given her and quickly slipped it into her mouth. It tasted bitter, but then they weren't exactly made to taste _nice_, were they? Actually, this wasn't too bad. Sort of like almonds. She'd have to ask him where he bought them from when they met up for dinner. Emily sat down and frowned in concentration at the score in front of her. Carefully, she took a breath and began to play.

The melody wound slowly through the building, falling like drops of rain into the silence on the staccato passages, then building into a rolling river of music on the legato harmony part. The air sped up, darting through the range like a fish through a stream, then slowed to a stately and final conclusion. Emily stumbled a little over the infamous set of triplet rhythms, frowned and began again from that bar, mastering them the second time, then played to the coda flawlessly. Taking up a pencil, she made a few notes on her score, and then began again.

Mozart's refrain filled the empty concert hall until half past four. It was beginning to falter at ten past, stopped entirely at twenty past, picked up again in a choking, rubato, off-pitch mockery of music at twenty five past. By half past, it had stopped for good, and it didn't restart. Emily Sato will never play again.

When Jack returns at five o'clock, he is surprised to find the place silent. He shrugs, decides she must be packing away, and ventures through the twisting maze of passages backstage.

The auditorium lights are on and the chairs are still there. Jack is confused, and a little worried, as he sees Emily's coat slung over the back of her chair, her music still on the stand. He hastens his steps towards the stage, worried, with a dread growing in his heart that increases as he sees a bundle of clothes on the floor- Emily's clothes- that look horribly like a body. He moves nearer and sees she is lying on the stage, face down, awkwardly- like she's collapsed.

When he reaches out, hand shaking, and touches her shoulder as she lies still, he jerks back in horror. It's cold in this hall, and Emily is stiff and cool. In terror and shock, he lifts up her head, and almost drops her.

One side of her face- the side that was on the floor- is covered in pink blotches. Her eyes are open, but they're staring at nothing. Her muscles are slack but stiff, and Jack lays her head down on the stage and stumbles back into a row of music stands, knocking them all over like dominos as he fumbles for his phone.

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><p>John Watson is woken, half asleep, by gunfire. His first thought is panic, and this is what makes him jump out of bed and dive for cover. His second thought is <em>Sherlock<em>, followed by a string of unprintable words, as he remembers he is _not_ in Afghanistan, he is in 221B Baker Street, which is nearly as dangerous and far less predictable. Also, he is not paid for being shot at which is why he gets up and dresses before going downstairs to yell at Sherlock.

Then the world flicks sharply into a new perspective for John as he hears- distinctly- the sound of _two_ shots being fired at once, then a yell, then what sounds horribly like a gun barrel clicking empty, and he knows this isn't just Sherlock being, well, Sherlock and he thunders downstairs just as fast as he can whilst still keeping quiet and peeks around the corner into the living room to find-

Sherlock sitting comfortably in an armchair, rubbing his shoulder and wincing slightly. John's not fooled and he sees the two pistols lying on the floor, having been unconvincingly kicked under the table, and he _also_ sees the unconscious, bound and gagged man unconvincingly hidden behind the armchair, and he _also_ sees the blood Sherlock is leaking everywhere, and the pain unconvincingly hidden behind his mask of stoicism.

Finally, John speaks. 'Why,' he says slowly, 'do I even bother with going to sleep?'

Then he fetches his first aid kit and calls the police and patches up Sherlock, who was only grazed by the bullet after all, and argues with him about going to hospital (which he refuses to do), then dispatches the attacker to Scotland Yard, and cleans up the flat and makes tea.

John collapses into his chair and looks at a clock. Four o'clock in the afternoon, he's been awake for two hours sorting that out, and before that he'd had roughly three hours sleep because Sherlock had been busy on a case and dragged him with him. They'd got back at 11 in the morning, but they'd left at 11 the previous night and all John wanted was sleep, and Sherlock had been wise enough to leave the violin in its case and refrain from exploding things.

'Well?' John asked, rubbing his eyes.

'Not my fault,' Sherlock said blandly.

'Armed attacker. Right after you finish getting the gang of armed robbers smuggling jewellery overseas convicted. Oh, what a funny coincidence I think not. Your fault.'

Sherlock glanced at him. 'You're oddly aggressive today.'

'I've had precisely three hours sleep out of the last twenty. Yes. I'm tired and I'm grumpy, Sherlock, so could we refrain from near-death experiences today?'

John knew that was a pointless thing to ask because just being in a room with Sherlock was a near-death experience. His dark glare, however, was enough to make Sherlock Holmes keep his mouth shut and quietly begin typing something up on the laptop. This, in itself, was frankly a miracle.

John calmly got up and went back to bed, where he fell into a dreamless sleep.

Barely an hour later he was woken up by Sherlock.

This time around, Sherlock was not being shot. He was not being strangled. He was not, in fact, in any danger at all and this was why he was standing over John and shaking him cautiously (because even sociopaths have a self preservation instinct).

John shot upwards through layers of calm black sleep, surfaced into consciousness, and sat bolt upright, hitting Sherlock in the stomach.

He blinked away sleep from his eyes, took in the detective gasping for air on his carpet, and decided that since he was not in any actual life-threatening danger he was going back to sleep.

'John, wake up!' Sherlock said when he got his breath back. Keeping his distance, he cautiously tapped John on the shoulder again.

'Sherlock,' John mumbled, 'Go. Away. Now.'

'We've got a case!' Sherlock said excitedly.

'Whoopee,' John murmured into his pillow.

Sherlock shrugged and left the room. John heard him walk down the stairs- treading deliberately heavily, he's sure- and a moment later, heard the slam of the door.

John turned over and went back to sleep.

Sherlock waited for a moment outside the flat, then shrugged and hailed a taxi.

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><p>The Jones Memorial Concert Hall, or just the Jones Hall as it was known, was on the outskirts of London and not too busy. Or rather, it hadn't been too busy. When Sherlock arrived the place was swarming with police officers and the door was taped off.<p>

Lestrade met him at the stage door.

'One victim. Female. Emily Sato, aged 21, clarinettist. She was rehearsing late and was found by a… friend, dead.'

Sherlock heard Lestrade's infinitesimal pause before "friend". 'Something you want to share about him?'

'How did you- never mind. I don't know what he was to her and he's too distraught to give more than a basic statement.'

'Cause of death?'

'Poison.'

'Administered how?'

'Orally, but in an unknown substance. We're waiting on the autopsy.'

As they spoke they were making their way through the building to the stage, still littered with chairs and music stands. They passed the last of the forensics team as they packed up and left. Sherlock strode past them with hardly a glance.

Lestrade followed him as he picked his way between chairs and knelt by the body.

'Well?'

'When was she found?' Sherlock asked as he prodded and poked the body.

'Five o'clock. The guy had arranged to come meet her for dinner or something. He was a bit incoherent, to be honest.'

'Time of death, four thirty,' Sherlock murmured to himself. 'Cause, cyanide… not eaten so far today, small flat, between jobs, poor…'

'So where's Doctor Watson today?' Lestrade asked in an attempt to make conversation.

'In bed,' Sherlock replied tersely. 'Says he's too tired to help.'

Lestrade blinked and shook his head. 'Making conversation with you is pointless isn't it?'

'Very,' Sherlock replied, his voice muffled as he knelt to examine Emily Sato's fingernails.

'Fine. Anything you can tell me?'

Sherlock straightened up. 'Where's her case?'

'Oh, please don't let's have a repeat of the suitcase thing-'

'Found it,' Sherlock interrupted, pulling Sato's clarinet case towards him. He rifles through it impatiently.

'What are you looking for?' Lestrade asked curiously.

Sherlock pulled out a plastic case. It was empty.

'Reed,' he said shortly.

'You what?' was Lestrade's sophisticated reply.

'She doesn't have a spare,' Sherlock said. He's busily prising the clarinet from the dead woman's hand.

'You lost me at "read". Read what?'

'Reed, clarinet reed. Normally people carry spares…' Sherlock was dismantling the clarinet.

'So… what?'

Sherlock pulled a small brown piece of what looked to Lestrade like wood from the end of the mouthpiece. 'So, this was the only one she had. and if we combine that with the fact she's barely got money to eat…'

Lestrade just looked confused.

'Somebody gave it to her,' Sherlock said in exasperation. 'It's brand new, she has no receipt, and she hasn't been buying anything for days because she's destitute until payday at the end of the week.'

'Right. So somebody gave her a reed. She probably borrowed it from one of the other clarinettists.'

'Only one other clarinettist,' Sherlock said. 'And that puts your witness as our prime suspect.' He stood up quickly.

'How did you know he's a clarinettist?' Lestrade asked, agog.

'There's only the two of them in the orchestra, stands to reason they'd be close. And she's got a card from him in her pocket.' Sherlock Frisbee-d the rectangle of card to Lestrade, who examined it.

'So,' Sherlock said with a humourless smile. 'I need to talk to Jack.'

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><p><strong>AN: OK, so, as you <em>may<em> be able to tell I'm a bit obsessed with Torchwood right now. I swear it was a coincidence that most of the characters ended up here...**

**I've really no idea where this one's going. Really. At all.**

**And in my head, Lestrade plays the tuba. Don't ask me why. But that gives us a representation of the main families of instruments in the Trio of Awesome (violin, clarinet, tuba). And no, I don't count percussion because I'm elitist :)**


	2. Chapter 2: Exposition

**AN: OK, here's chapter 2. I think that it's OK information-wise but do let me know if I'm wrong on something.**

**John and Sherlock's duet wasn't originally planned but I have wanted to do that ever since we found out he plays the clarinet. :D And in this chapter, the plot makes an appearance! Tell me if the solution's obvious- I hope not. But if people have already guessed the ending...**

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><p><span>Chapter 2<span>

Lestrade led Sherlock out of the theatre, giving the clean-up crew the go ahead on the way past, and towards the witness turned suspect, who was shivering so badly that the mug of tea in his hands was slopping all over the place.

'You all right, love?' a kindly paramedic was asking him. He nodded jerkily and looked at the tea in his hand.

'Could I… could I have some more sugar in this?' he said in a slightly disjointed fashion. The woman smiled kindly and swooped down on the tea mug, bearing it away to the boot of the ambulance car where a portable kettle sat, spooning in more sugar.

Sherlock frowned as he approached, running his eyes over the young man. He was in his twenties, with dark hair cut short and spiked slightly, a very pale face- unsurprising, under the circumstances- and icy blue eyes. He was shivering despite his warm blue coat and the orange blanket draped around him, and breathing in gasps. Shock, Sherlock decided. Deep, ragged breaths, shivering, paleness. The man was terrified. He was from an upper class family, pretty well off, didn't have to really worry too much about fending for himself. Sherlock deduced the man's financial status from his clothes- expensive blue coat, lighter blue cotton shirt, very expensive boots, all tailored to fit him. Must be family money because clarinettists don't earn that much for playing in a small orchestra.

'This is Jack Harper,' Lestrade informed him as they walked towards him. 'Go easy on him, Sherlock, he's in a state of shock.'

'Yes, thank you Lestrade, I can see that.' Sherlock brushed off the policeman's orders and tapped Jack Harper on the shoulder. He spun around with another gasp.

'Oh, calm down. I'm not going to hurt you,' Sherlock said disdainfully. 'Why did you lend Emily Sato a clarinet reed?'

Harper stared at him. 'I… I…'

'Hurry up,' Sherlock said in irritation.

'She didn't have one! I had a spare and… I knew she couldn't afford…' The young man was breathing jerkily again, clearly agitated.

'Was the reed new?'

'I… bought it today… as a spare… wasn't opened…'

'Did you arrange to meet Miss Sato tonight?'

'Ye-yes, we were… dinner…'

'What was your relationship to Miss Sato?'

Jack Harper didn't answer. Sherlock rolled his eyes and shook the man, snapping him out of his trance. 'What was your relationship with her?'

'I… was a friend,' he gasped out. 'Friends… I swear… she…'

Sherlock let go of him and walked away. The paramedics immediately descended, replacing his mug of sweetened tea and checking the man's vital signs. Lestrade gave them a helpless look in answer to their glares and followed Sherlock.

'Do you _have_ to mistreat witnesses to the point of actually harming them? It only creates paperwork for the rest of us, you know.'

Sherlock waved a hand. 'Boring, don't care. Listen, I need you to run a lab test on that reed. Then I need to talk to whoever sat on Sato's other side- one of the flautists, I should think. Get a list and seating plan for the entire orchestra from the conductor, then bring in the ones nearby for questioning. I suggest you take Harper into custody. Ask him where he buys reeds from. And-' Sherlock was striding into the theatre so fast that Lestrade had to jog to keep up- 'I'm going to need another look at the crime scene.'

'You can't,' Lestrade spoke up. 'I just sent in the clean-up teams.'

'Idiot,' Sherlock snarled, turning around so suddenly Lestrade nearly walked into him. 'Make sure they picked up _everything_ as evidence, got that? I need the packet for that reed.'

'W-what?' Lestrade asked in bewilderment. Sherlock was now exiting the theatre at a similar speed.

'The packet! Harper said that the reed was new, that Sato opened the packet. That would mean that she opened it in the theatre, so the packet should be in there somewhere. It'll be small, made of foil, only the size of the reed itself.'

Lestrade grabbed a passing officer and ordered him to find the reed packet, giving Sherlock's description, and turned back to the tall detective.

Or rather, where he had been. Sherlock had vanished again, and Lestrade saw his tall figure running down the street in the opposite direction. DI Lestrade rolled his eyes and returned his attentions to the crime scene, having long ago given up on getting Sherlock Holmes to do anything at all he didn't want to do.

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><p>Sherlock did not return to the flat for another five hours. Firstly, he had some business to conduct; secondly, he knew better than to wake John again. Five hours, he decided, would be long enough; that gave John 8 hours, the recommended amount for an adult, so he was less likely to actually harm Sherlock for waking him. Also, he got bored wandering around London and had an experiment which needed attention.<p>

John had, in fact, woken up at around eight-thirty and given up on returning to sleep. He showered and dressed, then wandered into the kitchen for a cup of tea. The kettle and teapot were free of contamination, but he couldn't find a mug so he used a glass instead. It was an odd way to drink tea, but at least it _was_ tea and not whatever Sherlock had put in the teabag box to make them the way they had been last week.

Finding that Sherlock had not returned, he had attempted to catch up on some reading but found that he didn't have any new magazines. John suspected Sherlock had something to do with that, especially when he found a torn-off cover of one of _his_ subscriptions lurking near an ominously coloured mixture which went _gloop_ occasionally.

John found, much to his surprise, that he was bored.

At an utterly loose end, he dug out his old clarinet from under his bed. It wasn't quite true to say he'd played in his schooldays; he'd kept it up even at university, playing in the school orchestra for quite some time, but it hadn't exactly been possible to take it to Afghanistan with him and he hadn't played since his return.

After a few minutes spent cleaning it, he began to play, relishing the idea of _him_ being the one making all the noise for once. It would serve Sherlock right if he came home and found it annoying, after all those late-night concerts.

Sherlock came in at ten past nine and was mildly amused to hear the distinctive sound of the clarinet from John's room. John was playing Jupiter, from Holst's Planet Suite.

Sherlock picked up his violin and began to play the harmony part.

John's playing faltered as he heard, then continued.

At the end of the piece, Sherlock heard an enthusiastic clapping. Mrs Hudson was standing in the doorway, a tray of biscuits on the table beside her.

'Oh, well done, Sherlock. Aren't you boys wonderful? I never knew John played.'

John came downstairs sheepishly. 'I used to. I was bored, so I thought…' he shrugged. 'Thanks for the biscuits, Mrs Hudson,' he added as he took one.

'Oh, you're welcome, dear.' Their landlady smiled appreciatively and disappeared downstairs.

'Good timing, John,' Sherlock commented as he took his customary seat on the sofa.

'Meaning what?' John said over his shoulder as he took the biscuits into the kitchen. 'Tea?'

'Please,' Sherlock replied.

'So what's so good about my timing? Don't tell me you've found a case where somebody was murdered with a clarinet.' John's voice echoed through from the kitchen as the kettle boiled.

'Of course not. That would be stupid.'

'Of course. Naturally,' John muttered.

'It was a clarinet reed.'

The kettle boiling obscured John's response.

Sherlock began to fill John in on the case as he made the tea. '…the main suspect is John Harper, who also played the clarinet.'

'I didn't think that Mozart's Requiem Mass had a clarinet part,' John remarked as he carried the tea through.

'This arrangement has clarinets playing the alto singers part, and flutes on the soprano. The tenor and bass are oboes and bassoons respectively. Why is the tea in a glass?'

'Because we're out of mugs. You commandeered them for experiments. So this is a new arrangement?'

'Yes. The concert is all about different arrangements of classical pieces.'

'Makes sense. So she was poisoned with cyanide?'

'Indeed.' Sherlock sipped his tea. 'The reed smelled of almonds. Correct me if I'm wrong, but clarinettists must chew their reeds before playing, which is an excellent way to administer poison.'

'More or less, yes. If she put the reed into her mouth and it was soaked in cyanide, that would be easily enough to kill, depending on the strength of the solution.'

'A remarkably stupid instrument,' Sherlock remarked, 'if you have to eat a component to play it.'

'I'm not going to bother responding to that,' John said wearily. 'Anyway, I can think of several ways to poison people using a violin, so don't think you're any better off if it comes to that.'

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 'How?'

'Resin,' John said immediately. 'The resin creates dust as you play. If that dust was poisoned it could be an excellent air born contaminant.'

'True, but-'

They were interrupted as Sherlock's phone beeped.

'It's Lestrade,' he said as he pulled it out of his pocket. 'Must be the lab tests…'

John took another sip of his tea and waited as Sherlock sat upright and began to text back.

'What did he say?'

'The reed wasn't poisoned. It was coated with almond essence to make it smell like it had been. Somebody wanted us to be thrown off the scent.'

'So how was she poisoned?'

'The only thing they can say so far is that whatever it was, it was via the mouth. That's where the concentration is strongest.'

'If he gave her the reed unopened, how did it come to be coated in almond essence?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'Maybe he bought it like that.'

John frowned. 'Most professionals don't buy the gimmicky flavoured reeds. They're usually a bit naff and don't sound very good. Were his other reeds flavoured?'

Sherlock grabbed his phone and began texting again.

'Well?' John asked after a moment.

Sherlock looked up. 'Just a second…' His phone beeped and he read the message. 'Ah. No, John, they were not.'

'You just had to ask Lestrade that, didn't you?'

'Does it matter?'

'Well, not really. Except that it's nice to find something you missed.' John stretched his arms out in front of him. 'Anyway, if his other reeds were standard, it makes it a bit odd that this one and only this one was different. And it's a very odd coincidence that the one and only time he buys an almond flavoured reed, he lends it to somebody, and that somebody is poisoned by cyanide.'

'You make a very good point, John,' Sherlock said.

'No need to sound so surprised, you're not the only one with a brain in this flat.' Ignoring Sherlock's look of superior disdain, John grabbed his laptop and started writing.

'What are you doing?'

'Typing up our last case.'

'Why?'

'Is there any reason why _not_ to, Sherlock?'

'We're in the middle of another one.'

John looked up in surprise. 'I thought it was fairly obvious that whoever leant her the reed- Jack Harper- killed her.'

'Obvious, yes,' Sherlock said, resting his chin on his folded hands. 'But obvious is not the same as true.'

'How so?'

'If you were going to poison somebody, would you leave a great big clue under everyone's nose? No. If you were capable of tampering with a sealed packet to leave a substance to be ingested by whoever used it, wouldn't you use that method to poison them? It could potentially prove untraceable. Poison the reed, assert it was a sealed packet, and then the police assume it was product tampering and bingo. Heat's off you and onto some fictitious criminal with a grudge against the company.' Sherlock's eyes narrowed. 'No… there was another motive behind this…'

John spoke up. 'It could _still_ have been product tampering. A coincidence.'

Sherlock looked at him in irritation. 'John, if somebody wanted to disgrace or ruin a company by messing with their produce, why on _earth_ would they use almond essence?'

John shrugged. 'They thought it was cyanide? It might have been an honest mistake by some unhinged person who hadn't disassociated the two. It's been known to happen- somebody with a severely damaged mentality often loses the sense of cause and effect. They think "cyanide=almonds, so almonds=cyanide"'.

Sherlock shook his head. 'No, still far too much of a coincidence. There's no way-'he broke off.

'No way what?' John said. Sherlock didn't reply, vaulting up off the couch and grabbing his coat as he ran out of the door.

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><p><strong>Review button down there calling your name, folks. See you next time!<strong>


	3. Chapter 3: Bridge

**AN**** Hiya, guys! I'm back after Lent and here's a nice, short, chapter to get back into the swing of things. Plot makes an appearance, although I suspect it of being too obvious. I'm a little worried about this characterisation too, but let's run with it.**

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><p>CHAPTER 3<p>

Lestrade's office was calm, quiet, and neat, filled with the sounds of people doing their jobs with neatness and precision. The gentle tap of keyboards, the beeps of computers, and the gentle whirr of printers spewing out reports were comforting evidence of the mechanism of Justice working smoothly.

Sherlock Holmes broke into this recess of calm professionalism, spreading ripples of alarm like a fish hook thrown into a pond, inciting a mad scramble in the occupants to be out of the way and elsewhere. John Watson followed behind him, the fisherman, ready to reel him in if he went too far.

Lestrade heard him coming. Even before a panicked intern dived into his office to tell him that Mr Holmes was here to see him, he was taking an extra-large swig of the coffee on his desk and wishing he hadn't promised his wife to give up drinking.

'Evening, Sherlock,' Lestrade grunted. 'And why have you decided to grace us with your presence this evening?' He glanced at the clock. Quarter to eleven- still another hour before he went off-duty.

Sherlock took a seat in one of the chairs in front of his desk. John sat in the other.

'I wanted to see how you were doing with the Sato case,' Sherlock said in what, for him, was a cordial tone.

Lestrade blinked. Sherlock was only this polite when he wanted something. 'Perfectly fine, thank you,' he replied guardedly. 'We've established a complete timeline of events leading up to the murder.'

Sherlock nodded. 'Let me see it.'

Ah, there it was. That was what he wanted.

'Fine,' Lestrade said, calling up the data on his monitor. He turned it around to face them. ' 1.30, rehearsal at the Jones Memorial Concert Hall begins. At 4.00, the rehearsal ends and the orchestra members leave. Harper makes an appointment with Sato to meet her at five. At approximately four-thirty, Sato dies and at 5 o'clock, her body is discovered by Harper.'

Sherlock had tuned out after 4.00. Lestrade sighed and looked at John, who shrugged.

'Find the water bottle,' Sherlock said abruptly. Lestrade and John both blinked at this non-sequitur.

'Sorry, what?'

'She was poisoned after the rehearsal began, given the time of death. We know she had eaten or drunk nothing before hand. Therefore, she must have consumed the poison during rehearsal.'

'Fine, Sherlock, but it could have been anything.'

'No wind player would eat during rehearsals-'

'With very good reason,' interpolated John. 'Have you _ever_ tried to clean a wind instrument after that?'

Lestrade shuddered. 'I used to play the tuba. I remember I used to eat sandwiches while I did practice, and then I came to clean it…'

John winced in sympathy.

Sherlock glared at both of them. '-and so it must have been a drink. Most flavoured and fizzy drinks would leave a residue on an instrument so it would have to be water.'

'He plays the violin,' John stage-whispered to Lestrade. 'Superiority complex.'

'He had one of those already,' Lestrade mumbled. He sighed. 'Alright, I'll get the forensics team looking for a bottle of water lying around. And I'll see if it came up in any interview transcripts.'

Sherlock nodded, rose, and swept out.

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><p>It was the next morning. John awoke, bleary eyed, from a remarkably peaceful night's sleep at seven AM and went downstairs.<p>

'Morning, Sherlock,' he called as he padded into the kitchen in his rumpled nightclothes. 'Is the tea safe to drink?'

'Depends,' Sherlock called back.

'On what?' John yelled, his hand holding the teapot suspended over a mug.

'Have you taken anti-radiation sickness drugs recently?'

John looked at the teapot. Then he carefully put it down on the surface and fished out a leadlined box from behind the toaster (goodness only knew why Sherlock had it in the first place, but John was making good use of it for the sake of his non-ionized molecules) and gingerly opened it. He poured the contents of the teapot in, hearing it splash sinisterly, then lobbed the teapot in too as an afterthought.

'I won't bother with tea this morning, then,' John said as he went back through and flopped into an armchair not occupied by Sherlock's insanely long legs, which were taking up all of the sofa and some of an adjacent armchair.

'Up to you,' Sherlock said casually. A moment later, he said, 'I never said that that teapot had any unstable isotopes in it, you know.'

John had a fleeting vision of the uncontaminated teapot lying peacefully in a puddle of lead-infused tea, surrounded by decaying uranium. 'Then why on Earth did you ask about radiation sickness?'

'I was making conversation, as you are always urging me to do.'

'From now on, I am urging you to _not_ make conversation, and to shut up. Better?'

Sherlock opened one eye. 'You're grumpy without tea.'

'Any news on the Sato case?' John asked, making an effort to keep calm.

'You just told me to-'

'_Sherlock_.'

'Yes.' Sherlock scooped up some papers lying on the table and, eyes still shut, threw them to John. He continued to talk as John read through them.

'Forensics found no bottled water on the scene. But in her interview statement, one of the orchestra members admitted to-'

'Yes, alright, I'm following along fine with my copy Sherlock,' John said acerbically and Sherlock folded his hands on his chest and appeared to go back to sleep.

John finished reading the interview transcript. 'Well?'

'Well what?' was the emotionless reply.

'Well, are you going to interview her?'

Sherlock stretched, catlike, and rolled off the sofa. 'No need,' he said as he padded upstairs, dressing-gown flapping behind him. 'I already know everything I need to know from the statement.'

John went to the foot of the stairs and called up to Sherlock, who had slammed the door of his room. 'So is she the killer?'

'Use your brain, John,' came the sarcastic reply.

John rolled his eyes and began to trudge up the stairs to get dressed.

* * *

><p>At eight AM that day, they were knocking on the door of a GP's surgery in the nice part of London.<p>

'Remind me again why we're here?' John asked.

'I need to check something,' Sherlock said, his breath crystallising in the cool air.

'I could just have checked it from my work,' John said in impatient irritation.

Sherlock made no reply and the door was eventually opened by a middle aged woman with a pair of spectacles on a chain about her neck. John suppressed a groan. It was the receptionist.

For those not familiar with the British medical system, there is a very odd institution in place between you and your doctor. And she does not believe in illness unless clearly visible, such as vomiting or bleeding. And if you dare to disturb the surgery before opening hours, she will turn into a dragon placated only by a medical degree or a police search warrant.

'Can I help you?' she said in a familiarly acidic tone. 'We're closed at the moment, you know. We open at half past.'

John winced and prepared for the backlash from Sherlock's inevitable rude reply.

'Yes, hello,' Sherlock's cultured voice came from beside him. 'We're working with Scotland Yard. I wondered if we could possibly take a look at a few of your files?'

Sherlock was smiling in that deceptively charming fashion he had when people had something that he wanted. John reflected that he looked almost like a human being on these rare occasions.

'I'm sure you can wait until the surgery has opened,' said the woman, although the edge on her tone had been taken by Sherlock's shameless charm.

John stepped up. 'Hello, ma'am, I'm Doctor Watson. _Captain_ Watson as well, actually.' The joint offer of medical degree and rank seemed to placate her a little further and she opened the door a little wider.

'It's _very_ irregular,' she said doubtfully. 'You really should wait until opening hours. And besides, can't the Yard access our records on the computer systems?'

'There's been a computer error,' Sherlock said smoothly. 'You know how it is. We have to do things the old-fashioned way for now.'

This seemed to be enough for the receptionist. 'Well, I suppose you'd better come in, then,' she said doubtfully. She opened the door fully and John and Sherlock traipsed in.

'Now, what records did you want?' the woman asked.

'We're looking for the records of a Mr Harper- a Jack Harper-,' John said, glancing at the badge on the woman's lapel, 'Mrs MacLariat.'

Mrs MacLariat nodded and took a key from behind her desk. 'Very well. Let's see, this cabinet is the A-G… yes, here we go, H – N.' She unlocked a huge shelf, pulling up the roller-blind to reveal five shelves of drawers of records.

Sherlock looked a little taken aback. John gave a private and malicious grin. Sherlock had probably never been to a doctor's surgery in his life; he would have _no idea_ of the sheer quantity of paper records stored in these places.

'I'll just get you a step ladder and then you can get the records yourself,' Mrs MacLariat continued. 'You don't mind, do you? Only I have to get ready for Doctor, she'll be arriving shortly, and there's the stock to sort out- we got a new delivery of hypodermics yesterday, I really must sort them.' So saying, the woman deposited a stepladder beside the two men and bustled off.

'You're the tallest,' John said. 'Get looking. They should be alphabetical by surname.'

Sherlock climbed onto the stepladder and pulled out the top drawer. It was two meters wide and a meter deep, and filled with fat paper files.

Luckily, _Harper_, _Jack _was near the beginning of the H's, and the tatty brown file was soon in Sherlock's hands.

'Found it?' John asked, leaning idly against the cabinet.

'Yes. Got a notepad?'

'I thought you had perfect memory.'

'I do. You don't.'

Sighing, John pulled a notepad and pen from his pocket and held it ready.

'OK, go.'

'Home address; 12a Lawrence Road, Islington. Profession; musician. Medical history; suffers from angina and occasional outbreaks of psychotic depression. Regular prescription, amyl nitrate. Occasional proscription of Prozac . '

John wrote it down. 'That's it?'

Sherlock shoved the file back in the drawer without care for the filing system. John raced to catch up with his friend as he left the building.

'That was all you wanted?'

'That was all I needed John, isn't it obvious yet? We need to see Harper. Taxi!'

* * *

><p><strong>There we go. Short and sweet. As I said, in my mind Lestrade is a tuba player.<strong>

**And most doctor's surgerys around here seem to have a middle-aged to elderly lady of the fiercest sort guarding the inner sanctum of the doctor. If you aren't actually dying in front of her, she will give you the most frightful look, as if accusing you of malingering.**


	4. Chapter 4: Development

**AN: I've not updated this in a while. Sorry everyone. Exams and so forth. Also, my Good Omens/Sherlock crossover A Study In Magic. If you like Sherlock and Good Omens, go and read it!**

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><p>The taxi drew up outside 12a Lawrence Road at nine o'clock, wheels gently throwing up splats of dirt. Sherlock and John got out and stood before the house.<p>

'Are you sure this is the right place, Sherlock?' John said sceptically. Sherlock did not reply and instead strode forwards, knocking on the door of A.W. Stowe and Sons, jewellers.

A tall, dapper man with a goatee opened the door. 'Can I help you?' he asked in bemusement, looking at the two of them. He had a strong Irish accent.

'We want to speak to the man in the flat above,' Sherlock said flatly.

'Jack?' The man sounded puzzled. 'Come on in and I'll see if he's here.'

'It's only nine AM. He's here.' Sherlock breezed past him into the interior of the shop, leaving the man flabbergasted. John smiled apologetically and followed Sherlock to the back of the shop, through a workroom and up a shabby flight of stairs.

Sherlock opened the door at the top without even a cursory knock. 'Jack Harper. I need to talk to you.'

As the door swung open, Jack Harper was revealed in the centre of the room, standing by a small table. At the sound of Sherlock's voice, he swung around with clear terror in his eyes.

'It's us,' John added to try and reassure the man. Harper looked dreadful. His skin was pale and his black hair looked even darker against the pallor. His light blue eyes were surrounded by white.

'Are you OK?' John asked anxiously. He pushed past Sherlock and into the room, crossing to the sick man, who cowered back. His pupils were dilated. It looked like shock to John.

Sherlock followed him into the small flat. It was a living room, furnished in the kind of minimalist style which was caused less by lack of money than excess of it and lack of sense. Jack was shrinking back from John in apparent fear.

'It's OK, Jack,' John said carefully. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sherlock sneaking around the flat but he wasn't really able to yell at him right now. Just as long as he didn't break anything.

Jack let out a deep breath. 'I'm sorry, I… who are you?'

'I'm Doctor John Watson. This is my friend, Sherlock Holmes.'

Jack glared at Sherlock, who was studying the table next to them with deep interest. 'We've met.'

'And you hated him instantly? Don't worry, a lot of people have that response.' John led him to a sofa by the wall. 'I think you'd better sit down and have a rest.'

Jack sat down slowly. 'Can I help you guys?'

'In a moment, yes. For now, you appear to be in shock, so I think you'd better take a seat and have a glass of water,' John said firmly.

Sherlock was still inspecting the table. It seemed ordinary enough to John. It was an all purpose desk type table, littered with loose sheet music, letters, long-empty cups of coffee, wrappers for various fast-food containers, stains of uncertain provenance, tubs, boxes, bottles, jars… it was the kind of mess you only got in flats inhabited by young, rich bachelors who weren't used to clearing up after themselves. A bottle of prescription pills was lying on its side, white caplets spilled over the mess.

'Is that your medicine?' John asked, nodding towards the bottle.

Jack nodded. 'I was just taking my morning dose and I spilt them.'

Sherlock extracted a letter from the pile and looked it over, examining the envelope and scanning the contents.

'Hey!' Jack protested weakly.

'It's alright, he's just… well, I'm sure he has a good reason.' John stood up. 'I'll get you a glass of water.'

Jack indicated the door to the kitchenette. 'Thank you.'

'No problem,' John said as he went through.

Sherlock wandered over to a row of hooks where two coats and some bags were hanging, and began to poke around.

'Here you go,' John said, handing over a glass as he emerged from the kitchen.

Jack sipped it. 'So how can I help you?'

Sherlock turned towards them. 'We're done.' He began to leave abruptly.

'You what?' Jack looked totally confused.

'Sorry,' John said apologetically as he followed Sherlock. 'Thank you for your time.'

They left the man sitting in his flat as they clattered down the stairs.

'So what was that about?'

'Evidence, John!' Sherlock strode past the shop assistant and out onto the pavement. John smiled awkwardly at the confused man and followed. 'Didn't you see it?'

'Surprisingly enough, Sherlock, no.'

Sherlock set off down the road. 'Wrong. You saw it. You just didn't know it was evidence.'

* * *

><p>They had just managed to make it into the flat when John's phone rang. He answered it as Sherlock breezed through into the sitting room, collapsing onto the sofa.<p>

'Hello?'

'Tell Sherlock we've done it,' Lestrade announced.

'Done what?'

John went through to the kitchen and began to make tea.

'We've arrested Emily Sato's killer.'

John frowned. 'Who?'

'Suzie Cooper,' said Lestrade triumphantly.

'_Who_?'

'The woman who gave our victim a water bottle, the woman who is in love with the man who asked our victim on a date, the most obvious suspect in the whole case? I know Sherlock doesn't like working with us but he can't go all the way off track like that.'

'He showed me your report, but he didn't seem to take much notice.'

'No change there. But we've got more than enough evidence to get a conviction, even though we can't find the bottle she used.'

'Wasn't it on the scene?'

'No- we checked the trashcans. Cooper says she took it home, threw it in a bin somewhere along the way.'

'Convenient.'

'Precisely. But Sato drank the water Cooper gave her, Sato dies- freeing up Cooper to get Harper.'

'Makes sense,' John admitted. 'Maybe Sherlock was barking up the wrong tree on this one.'

'He's not always right.'

'You can tell him that. I'm not sure I dare.'

The two men laughed.

'I'll tell him that you caught Cooper, though,' John said. 'See you around.' He hung up.

'Sherlock?' he called. 'That was Lestrade.' John picked up the mugs and made his way through the cluttered flat into the living room. 'He says that they caught the killer.'

Sherlock opened one eye. 'I doubt it.'

'Suzie Cooper,' John added as he placed a mug next to Sherlock.

The eye opened again. 'Wrong.'

'I hate to tell you this, Sherlock, but they have enough evidence for a conviction. Cooper was in love with Harper, who asked our victim on a date, so Cooper gave her a poisoned water bottle that the police can't trace.'

'Obviously not. Surely you can see why.' Sherlock appeared to go back to sleep.

'Pray enlighten me.'

'Didn't you listen to the testimony we heard? Harper asked Sato to meet him at the end of rehearsals.'

'And?'

'When did Cooper give her that bottle?'

'Halfway through-' John broke off. 'Look, that doesn't mean anything. She might have pre-empted it.'

'Harper had not asked Sato on a date before. It was a spur of the moment decision. Unless Cooper is psychic, and there is no such thing, she did not poison Sato because Harper was in love with her.'

'But she did poison Sato?'

'As it happens, no. But we can rule out Lestrade's motive anyway.'

'So who did poison Sato?' John asked, settling back into his armchair.

Sherlock turned over. 'You work it out.'

_-Challenge to the reader: You have all the evidence that Sherlock does. Go ahead. Work out who killed Emily Sato.-_

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><p><strong>I hope it isn't too obvious. I'm not all that good at mysteries. Concrit is welcome, guys. Reviews make me happy :)<strong>


	5. Chapter 5: Recapitulation & Coda

**AN: Well, er... um. I might have ever so slightly...forgottentotallythatthisexis ted.**

**Here's the final chapter, with resolution. I was going to put the Coda in separately, to keep with the sonata form, but really it's not worth it.**

**Gah. I really wanted to use a flashback-with-narration here, like you might see on CSI, but I honestly do not know what the literary equivalent is so here's the other version.**

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><p><strong>Chapter 5: Recapitulation<strong>

In the end, they didn't exactly catch Emily Sato's killer. The criminal slipped through their fingers, just at the last moment, and was never seen again after the plane tickets to Argentina were discovered in the flat. The police instantly halted the flight, searched every single passenger, and completely missed the plane leaving for China carrying their prey.

Sherlock was coldly dismissive of this, pointing out what even Lestrade agreed the officers should have realized- if the tickets were in the flat, then the killer was _not_ on that flight.

An inquiry was commissioned, a manhunt commenced, and diplomatic relations with China put under pressure, all producing absolutely no result.

But here's what happened anyway.

* * *

><p>The orchestra was rehearsing again when Sherlock, flanked by John and tailed by a column of police officers who quietly spread out to cover the exits, strode down the central aisle of the concert hall.<p>

The conductor, of course, had his back to them. The orchestra, seeing the interruption, began to slow and stop playing, the piece dissolving into a discordant storm of noise.

The conductor began to scream at them.

Sherlock hopped up onto the podium behind him.

When the conductor turned around to see what they were looking at, he nearly fainted. John ushered the poor man out of the way, rolling his eyes at the detective's theatrics.

'The person who killed Emily Sato is in this room,' Sherlock announced without preamble, sparking a murmur of curiosity and fear. Many people turned to look at Suzie Cooper's empty chair.

'Yes- in _this _room. That means not in a holding cell somewhere else, don't bother looking for Cooper. She's innocent.'

This caused even more of a stir.

'Jack Harper was the last person to see Sato alive,' Sherlock said with a faint air of boredom. 'And he was the only person with a motive to kill her at the time of her death.'

This set the orchestra into full uproar. Harper started from his chair, pale faced and trembling.

'Stay where you are,' Lestrade called. A police officer materialized behind Harper, pushing him back into his chair.

'What-' began the young man, but Sherlock talked over both him and the clamour of the other instrumentalists.

'You suffer from a heart complaint, for which you are regularly prescribed amyl nitrate. The box containing this was found in the bag that you were carrying on the day Sato was killed.'

'Well, yes-' Harper began, but Sherlock cut him off.

'Also in that bag was a large packet of sugar. Half opened. I highly doubt that you were on your way to a cookery class later,' the detective deadpanned.

'What does that prove-' Harper began angrily.

John started. 'Amyl nitrate and glucose! They're both potential antidotes for cyanide poisoning!'

Sherlock looked briefly annoyed at John's stealing his thunder. 'Precisely. Thus, the means by which Emily Sato ingested the poison is clear.'

'Explain it for us mere mortals, why don't you,' Lestrade said sarcastically. Jack Harper was looking hunted.

'Jack Harper waited until everybody had left the building and then returned but not at five o'clock as he claimed. He returned at approximately 4.05, and he was with Emily while she practised.'

This caused yet another stir.

'And he poisoned her. He carefully inhaled the amyl nitrate fumes, ingested as much sugar as he could, and then allowed a cyanide capsule to dissolve in his mouth. The poison was transferred when he kissed Emily Sato. We didn't find anything with cyanide contamination because we didn't think to run a blood test on our main witness.' Here he directed a glare at Lestrade, who rolled his eyes. 'Since one capsule wouldn't have been enough to be certain of her death, he probably took several- maybe passing them off as breath mints or something. He left Emily, waited until five o'clock when he could be sure she was dead, and returned to "discover" the body.'

Harper stood up, shaking off the restraining hand of the officer on his shoulder. 'How the- what-'

Sherlock sneered. 'You shouldn't have left the sugar in your bag. And maybe you should have been a bit less reliant on the stuff- I'm amazed you haven't developed diabetes from the amount you ate.'

Harper's face took on a waxy pallor. 'You-' He shook off the two officers who tried to hold him back and strode to the centre of the stage, knocking people sideways as he did so. 'You don't understand. Sato was- she was insane! She told me that she knew I was in love with Suzie- Emily said she didn't want me to be with her- Sato threatened me! She said she'd kill Suzie if I ever told Suzie I loved her!'

'So you killed her.' It was a statement and not a question. Lestrade motioned to the police officers. 'Arrest him.'

Harper began to laugh as the two officers picked their way towards him. 'You'll never catch me.'

'He's insane,' John said softly as he watched the man. 'He's suffering from some psychosis. Tremors, pale skin, delusions-'

Harper gave a sickly grin. 'No, really. You won't.'

There was a hiss. Mist sprung up from the area around Harper. The orchestra recoiled, screaming, and fled.

The police officers Lestrade had stationed around the doorways tried to stop them, but were mown down. Sherlock vaulted over the front of the podium and sprinted towards where Harper had been standing.

'Sherlock, you idiot! Get away from there!' John yelled, but followed him anyway.

They reached the centre of the stage, coughing and spluttering- John was surprised to find that, instead of the tear gas, or worse, poison, he had expected, it was simply dry ice- but Harper was gone. Vanished.

Much searching revealed a carefully hidden stage trapdoor. Nobody ever knew how Harper had worked it. His accomplice, if he had one, was never found. Sherlock sulked for weeks about his 'failure'.

**Chapter 6: Coda**

Of course, Sherlock had a theory. He always had a theory. Or, to be exact, Sherlock always _knew_. But without facts or evidence, without even a name, a theory it would remain.

John privately thought Sherlock was being paranoid. It was inevitable- the man seemed to suffer from almost every psychological disorder known to man. Paranoia was just a matter of time.

Sherlock was convinced that yes, Harper had an accomplice and yes, Harper was alive and well. Sherlock claimed that the same man who'd helped Harper had interfered with other cases of theirs. John pointed out that it was a coincidence. Sherlock scowled and said that there was no such thing.

When the man behind these _coincidences_ actually turned up, and started to try to kill them both, John was too busy not dying to actually think about it, but yes, it did all fit. A consulting criminal had seemed a bit of a stretch before, but given that he was currently engaged in all-out war with Sherlock John was in no position to doubt his existence.

John was frankly astonished, but really not surprised because it was Sherlock, that he was _right_. Again.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Yeah. I didn't originally plan to have Moriarty in here, but at the end it actually just seemed like a good way to link it, so I'd say that this then puts this story in S1, between SiP and TGG.<strong>


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